Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Wakeful Hills

“We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.”  Thomas Merton A Book of Hours

The morning fog flows like milk
through folded brown hills,
cream spilled on dry grass;

then the sun rises, rolling fog
into shimmering waves
before the hard hand of
simmering noon-day.

But you permit no illusion.

I see what is hidden
beneath the dark oak tree
under these dry rocks
what is given to me:

down shimmering highways
past white valleys of bone
I’ll glide till I become
the humble stone.

(30 August 2013)

1 comment:

  1. Gloriously beautiful! Love the description of the morning fog and I adore "till I become the humble stone."